You See, but You Do Not Observe
by Underthewillows3
Summary: Sherlock can take the most minute clues and use them to solve crimes. John has been faithfully by his side as his friend, and his partner. Sherlock misses the most important clues of his life, and it costs him his whole world. Warning: Themes of depression, suicide


_I love you. -JW_

Sherlock smiled at this text he had received earlier in the day as he walked through the front door of 221B, the dying light of the summer sun casting his shadow onto the steps inside. It was late, much later than when he told John he would be home. He hoped he wouldn't be terribly upset, he hated upsetting John even though it was something he often inadvertently did. He climbed the stairs to the flat, each step creaking under his weight.

He reached the door and opened it, walking into the room barely lit by sunlight. Sherlock thought it odd that John wasn't waiting for him in his armchair as he normally did, but then he remembered that they were out of milk again. He turned quickly to head into the kitchen to begin making tea for them both, he was sure John would be home from the shops soon. As he walked, a strange smell hit him. It was barely there, but very out of place in the flat. It was oddly familiar, he had smelled it on countless cases, in the morgue…a sudden panic rose in him when he realized what it was.

_Gunpowder_

He noticed their bedroom door was slightly ajar, when it was normally closed. He ran to the door, flinging it open.

His whole world fell apart right there in that dark room, where books and clothes lay scattered, papers and files sat in stacks, just as they had left it that warm June morning when Sherlock kissed John goodbye.

The light from the hallway shone into the room, letting him see the outline of John laying face up on the bed. The nauseating smell of gunpowder grew stronger and hung around him like a thick fog.

Sherlock could feel the blood rushing from his head, the roaring sound drowning out the noise from the city below. He swallowed back bile as he forced himself to come closer.

"John?" he whispered, even though he knew he couldn't hear him any longer.

A dark stain was spread around John's head, his once bright eyes staring up into nothingness. His pistol lay in his lifeless hand, a single shell casing sitting on the bed.

Sherlock grabbed his other hand, not knowing what else to do. It was cold.

He would recall later that this is what made him lose it, the feeling of John's cold hand, when it had been so warm, so strong, guiding him wherever he went. John's warm hand meant it was safe, it was alright. Now it was cold, lifeless. And this to Sherlock, more than the blood and the gun, meant that John was gone, meant that he wasn't here with him.

Screams ripped from his body, the shrill, frightening sounds cutting through the room.

Lestrade had come by to return Sherlock's scarf he had forgotten in his haste to leave Scotland Yard when he heard the ear-piercing screams coming from 221B. He raced to the flat, running into the bedroom when he realized where the screams were coming from.

"Jesus Christ," was all Lestrade could say when he saw Sherlock and John.

"Help, help him, Lestrade, you have to help him" Sherlock pleaded, his ice blue eyes shining with tears. "He's…"

"Gone, Sherlock, he's gone," Lestrade said, brokenhearted, walking over to Sherlock and wrapping his arms around him, gently prying his hand from John's. He let him cry, let his friend scream into his worn jacket as he called for backup.

* * *

He had left a note, singularly addressed to Sherlock. He couldn't bring himself to read it until weeks later.

_ To my dearest Sherlock, my love, my partner, my friend_

_ I am so sorry you have to read this, to deal with this. I have been living with this burden for nearly my entire life, this terrible sadness has been in my heart for as long as I could remember. I spent years trying to make it go away, becoming a doctor, going into the Army, doing anything I could to make myself feel good, feel like I was doing something to better someone else's life. And none of it worked, until I met you. Chasing you through the streets of London, listening to those bloody brilliant deductions of yours. I loved you from the moment I met you Sherlock, I was yours from the beginning. _

_ Your love and your friendship have done more for me than anything else ever has. You, Sherlock, you and your wonderful, big brain and even bigger heart, made me the happiest man on this Earth. Until I wasn't, through no fault of your own, my love. This is an awful, all-consuming disease that I just can't fight anymore. I've tried all the pills, the therapy. I can't tell you when I started feeling depressed again, when my thoughts returned to utter darkness. I'm tired, Sherlock, I'm tired of fighting. I'm sorry, so sorry, my love. I just wanted what was best for you, and it's having me gone. I weigh you down, Sherlock, and with these thoughts I would just weigh you down more. I know how angry you must be with me, but I hope you can forgive me. You gave me the best years of my life, the love, the partnership I had always been lacking. Thank you for everything. Don't blame yourself for this, it was an inevitability for me. I love you, Sherlock, I always have, and I always will. Keep living, Sherlock. For me._

_ John_

Sherlock folded the paper back in half, slipping it into the pocket of his dressing gown. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled. After a moment, his head sunk into his hands and sobbed, waiting for those strong, warm arms to wrap around him like they had so many times before, for that deep voice to tell him it was alright.

But, John was gone.

And in the end, so was Sherlock.


End file.
